


Subdued

by chasinghorizons (NotYourNoona)



Series: Drabble On [7]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Drabble, Drabble Collection, Drunken Confessions, F/M, Fluff, Lee Taeyong Needs a Hug, Lee Taeyong is Whipped, Past Relationship(s), Soft Lee Taeyong, i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 08:12:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14950938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotYourNoona/pseuds/chasinghorizons
Summary: A slightly intoxicated Taeyong spills a little too much milk.





	Subdued

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote this ages ago, like last year ages ago. It’s not my first NCT fic I’ve written but it’s the first one I’ve published so I hope yall like! 
> 
> Come say [hi](http://honey-piggy.tumblr.com/) or ask me some [questions](http://honey-piggy.tumblr.com/ask)!

  
Your heart jumps out of your chest and lands on the carpet at your feet, your limbs frozen and heavy with premature terror. Though you know you're overreacting, you still can't find a reasonable explanation for the thudding on your front door at 2:30 in the morning.

You lay, deathly still, having been ripped from an elusive yet vivid dream on the couch and wait for the next bout of knocks. But what follows next both reassures and weighs your limbs heavier with dread. Your name.

"Hello?"

His voice sounds through the small apartment, finding you in the living room and hangs in the air above your head, awaiting some sort of response. He calls again and you notice a little sing-song in his holler.

"Are you home?" He bangs his fist on the door again, prompting you to sit up and tut at his inconvenient visit. And at such an ungodly hour.

"No." You shout back, padding to unlock the door. You pull the latch and step back, narrowly missing a head on collision as he stumbles into the threshold. "What do you want?"

"What do _I_ want?" Taeyong parrots, jabbing his chest in reference to himself. You watch as he attempts to stand straight, but fails and tries to lean casually against the wall instead.

His usually pastel-pink hair is now a grubby shade of rose that somehow matches the colour of his cheeks. He blinks several times before closing his eyes completely, the only sound being his erratic breathing.

"I," he opens his eyes and steps forward, "want a lot of things. A lot of things I can't have."

"Ok..." You shift your weight onto one foot and cross your arms, unimpressed. "Why are you here at–" you check your phone, "–twenty five minutes to three. In the morning."

He frowns and scratches the scar on the corner of his eye. "Oh it's later than I thought..."

Taeyong attempts to stand again and almost loses his footing. You squint and he grins. That was enough to know something was wrong.

Lee Taeyong never willingly smiled at anyone, least of all you.

"I think I should... stay here then." His lips move lazily, trying to wrap around the messy words pouring from his mouth.

You look closer and realise his eyes aren't really focused anywhere, but rather roaming and glazed over.

"Are you... are you _drunk_?"

The all too rare grin appears again and Taeyong tips his head back to stare through the ceiling. "No," he laughs. "I'm definitely not drunk."

"Uh huh," you lean in close and the unmistakable stench of alcohol assaults your nostrils. "Jesus, how much did you have?"

He waves his hand flippantly and totters over to your couch, only managing to half shrug his jacket off. He lands face first into the cushions, and you rush over to turn him onto his back, afraid he'll smother himself.

"My name isn't Jesus."

"Shut up already."

"This," he points a finger in your direction. "This is why I have such... a hard time with you."

"Yeah yeah," you head towards the kitchen to fetch a glass of water.

"You're always so cold to me and I have no choice but to be mean to you and sometimes I get sad because I just want to make friends–"

"Listen to yourself, you're not making any sense."

"I don't want to listen to myself. That's why I came here, for you to listen to me." His voice is hoarse and somewhat simplified thanks to an evening full of soju and god knows whatever else he’d chugged down.

"I'm not listening. Sober up or get out."

"I am sober."

"And I'm the queen of England."

"You see? Again... with the attitude," he sips his water, a drop escaping his mouth and running down his neck, dampening his shirt collar. "I blame myself because of my face."

"Your... face?"

"I don't have a... friendly face. It's sort of cold." He brings a hand up to his cheek, checking the temperature. "But I'm warm. I am. You must be too."

You say nothing, choosing instead to stand across from him. After observing him for long enough and watching him struggle to lay comfortably on the cushions, you walk over to the couch and sit on the floor by his head. You feel the back of his hand clumsily press against your cheek and you suppress the overwhelming urge to lean into it.

"Yeah. Warm." You hear him mutter into the fabric, words colliding in his mouth and coming out slurred.

"For a long time... I wanted to tell you that you look nice when you smile."

"You're drunk, Taeyong. It’s is the liquor talking." Though your heart flutters all the same.

"It makes me feel gi- It makes me feel..." You sense him frown at his inability to choose the right word.

"Giddy?"

He hums in approval, a heavy hand resting on your shoulder. "That word."

"Ok."

"And I know we're history but I think about you everyday. I think about us and all the fun things we used to do and the shit we used to talk about–"

He rolls over to his side so his breath disturbs your hair. He reaches out and pulls at a lock.

"I miss your hair."

You swat his hand away and move to the other end of the couch. He's quiet for such a long time, you assume he's fallen asleep, pulled under by the unrelenting force of intoxication.

"I miss you."

It's barely audible, mumbled incoherently into your silk throw, but you still catch it. And by the time you answer, you know he's knocked out for sure. Still, you reply with a hushed whisper, afraid that if you confessed too loud he'd hear you.

"Yeah. I miss you too."

  
***

  
It's not a particularly nice morning, but those were always the best types of days. The sky, a gunmetal grey, hangs low and gravid with the heavy promise of rain. It casts a shadow over your apartment, leaving behind a sombre filter instead of the usual sunny hues.

The first thing you hear when you wake is rainfall of course; the steady and determined pattering of water against every surface of the city below. But it hadn’t been the sound of rain that’d woken you.

You listen carefully, your mind still fuzzy and your ears working double time to try and distinguish dream from reality. You throw the covers off and sit up, hearing a light set of footsteps outside your bedroom door. And for a split second you panic; had you brought someone home? Had someone broken in?

But as you listen closer, the footsteps become more familiar. They're quiet and precise and you'd heard them plenty of times before, stomping and shuffling to the beat of music. It suddenly occurs to you that Taeyong had spent the night on the couch – drunk.

After he'd passed out, you'd left him on the cushions, awkwardly sprawled out. You hadn't even bothered throwing a blanket over him, letting your bitter feelings steer you to your own room.

Perhaps if things had ended differently he would've spent the night in your bed.

The door to the bathroom clicks shut and you push up from the mattress, no longer able to hear his treading. You head over to the mirror and quickly wipe the sleep from your eyes. You tie your hair up and pull on a sweater and you wonder why you're even making the effort to look presentable. There was no one to impress.

You step out into the cold apartment and there's no sign of him, not even in the bathroom. The door swings open, creaking slightly on its hinges, to reveal an empty room. You frown and pad towards the kitchen, turning the central heating on.

And it's not until you turn around that you realise it hadn’t been the bathroom door clicking shut, but rather the front door. Sitting rather welcomingly on your kitchen counter is a paper cup of coffee, accompanied by a fresh pastry and a note. You reach out to touch the drink and yank your hand away; it's still piping hot. And the pastries are still warm.

You lean closer and peel the pink sticky note from the counter surface reading the same word over and over again.

 

  
' _Sorry_.'


End file.
